“Yes, sir; that’s what I’m doing,” was the reply.
“Hadn’t we all better do the same, sir?” asked the sergeant.
“Yes,” said Dickenson angrily.
“I doubt whether we can keep his fire down, though, sir. He’s got us now.”
“Not yet—the brute!” cried Dickenson through his teeth.
“He’ll have the other two safe, sir.”
“Other two?” cried Dickenson wonderingly.
“What! don’t you see, sir? There’s another of the ponies hit.”
“Good gracious!” cried Dickenson, in such a homely, grandmotherly style that, in spite of their perilous position, the sergeant could not help smiling.
But his face was as hard as an iron mask directly, as he saw the look of anguish in his young officer’s face, Dickenson having just seen the second pony standing with drooping head and all four legs widely separated, rocking to and fro for a few moments, before dropping heavily, perfectly dead.